


Till death do us reunite

by arual1407



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Mentions of Death, Mentions of Underage Sex, Multi, Off screen necromancy, Off screen sex work, Polyamorous relationship, The sex stuff appears very briefly off screen in chapter 4, You Have Been Warned, author hasn't actually finished playing Morrowind so expect inaccuracies, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arual1407/pseuds/arual1407
Summary: In which the nerevarine seeks to revive parts of his, and Nerevar's, past.





	1. A light in darkness

If his people knew what he'd done they'd call him disgusting. A sinner. They'd spit at his feet, treat him like the vilest creature from the pits of the dead lands, they would call him rotten to the core and damned to forgetfulness. He was supposed to be their savior, a glowing beacon marked by One-Clan-Under-Moon-And-Star, which hung on a chain around his neck as he worked. He dared not to wear it while dirtying his hands in the vilest manner imaginable to the dunmer.  
He was grave robbing. Had his hands not been hardened from many months of wielding swords, bows and his trusty halberd, the hard work with the shovel and pickaxe would long since have blistered his hands to bleeding. And really, it was his own fault. He was the one who had left them to rot, burying the model city under the rubble of a chamber in the belly of Mournhold in a fit of pain and corprus rage.

Now, as he worked day and night, barely stopping for food and rest, he regretted every moment of it. Really, he was both shocked and relieved that Vehk hadn't found it in themself to hate him as he hated himself for having done what he did. Now he relied on them for help. They were the one who went back above ground, finding food and tricking people as they'd done so many ages ago to afford to keep them both alive while he worked day and night in miserable conditions beneath the earth. And yet he couldn't do anything else, could not live with himself and the thought that he had left them there, both of them, no doubt barely more than rusted armor, bones and tarnished dwemer metal left of the two who had once been his lovers, two he did not want to keep living without. So he'd try to strike a bargain of the most sacrilegious kind with the god most likely to listen to him and fulfill his wish. He could only hope that she would give them a chance, that she might trust him enough to look past their broken oath, that she might love him enough to give Alma and Sil one more chance.

The hope was still with him as he finally unearthed the clockwork city hidden beneath Mournhold. It was with him as he called on old, faded magic to enter the city within the city, as he walked through ancient halls he remembered so well, as he laid the last fabricants in his path to rest, thanking them for their years of unending service to a long dead master.  
It barely prepared him for entering the chamber where he knew they would be waiting for him after 200 years. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing Sotha Sil, a dried out husk almost swallowed up by machinery, wrapped in wires, mouth open and head thrown back in a silent, soundless scream. Even worse was the sight of Almalexia where he had left her, the ground still stained dark with blood around her body and around her upper back where his spear had gone through her like she was made of wet paper rather than blood and bone.

Slowly, carefully he stepped in, moving for Sil first. The unnecessary machinery was removed, anything that was not attached to flesh and bone was taken away, though the crested crown came off last. It had been so long, but he still remembered every dip and divot of old scars burned into golden skin across his face. The fires which had burned Ald Sotha had been daedric, unforgiving and ruthless, a whisper of the potential of the Prince of destruction. Ald Sotha had been a ruin by the time he'd met Seht, crippled and diminished by the fire which had taken his home, his family and more than half of his limbs. The only thing left had been a brilliant mind and a determination to let nothing stop him, even if he'd had to rely on magic to get him around and to do the things his body would no long allow.  
Gently, reverently, he laid Sil's body on the ground, stroking back the few remaining wisps of white hair before he turned to Almalexia.

Just as meticulously, he removed all trappings of the god queen of Morrowind. Her war mask was removed carefully, followed by the circlet and jewelry crusted over with long dried blood.  
As beautiful as she had been in life, death had barely been able to touch her. Even now her hair was blazing sunset red and her tattoos still proclaimed her a daughter of Resdayn, a queen who had stood against the nords and shown them the door with all of Mournhold behind her. He still remembered her like that, ebony and glass making her look the image of Boehthiah incarnate, her eyes glowing with wrath as she had chased the oppressors from her city and then from her country. He had married her for love just as much as politics, and he remembered well those nights, all five of them together in the palace of Mournhold, drinking and laughing and her eyes had been full of joy and her voice had been full of love. That was why he carefully picked up her body and laid her next to Sil, already whispering prayers for forgiveness under his breath.

The ritual was something he had read about extensively; call upon Akatosh to rewind time, to add more sand to an hourglass run dry, and hope that the prayer would be answered. And he could only hope that Azura would listen, that she would speak to him as she had so many times before.  
Thus he kneeled on the floor, clasped the ring around his neck between his hands until the points of the star made him bleed and prayed. He pleaded, tried to bargain, whispered and yelled for Azura to listen, begged her to show mercy. For hours he knelt there on the dusty floor, calling out to oblivion.

For a moment he thought something he saw might be a trick of the dim dwemeri lighting and the tears making his vision foggy. Still, he lifted his head and gaped as he looked at the woman before him, beautiful and ethereal, her grabs made of pure sunrise, her skin a darkening night sky and a scent of roses and dew clinging to her body. He was struck silent as she approached the bodies on the floor, touching each of them once before fading, leaving only behind the scent of roses and a light dew on his skin. His prayer had been heard, but he could only try to guess the price as he looked at Sotha Sil and Almalexia. From the touch of Azura, their skin darkened, marking them as cursed, not forgiven, while life seemed to return to them.  
He was breathless, struck silent as he watched their bodies slump, no longer stiffened by the hold of death. Carefully, he allowed himself to reach out and touch Almalexia's cheek, tracing a tattoo over skin that was once again soft and growing warm to the touch as old wounds stitched back together, leaving only a silver knot of scar tissue. He watched as Sil started breathing again, a faint silver line across his throat all that remained of the deathblow struck by the woman now lying next to him.

And finally, the Nerevarine allowed himself to weep as he had completed a sacrilegious ritual and had been gifted the lives of two of his past lovers back to him. He wept as he bowed his head to the ground and thanked Azura for all of her mercy and kindness, the price to come forgotten.


	2. Forgiveness (is hard to accept)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sotha Sil awakens in a tent and comes face to face with the past.

The first thing Sotha Sil, clockwork mage, master of all magics in Nirn and Oblivion and beyond, mortal man made god and knower of all that is to know, notices as he comes to again is how small he feels. How silent and still the air is around him, no longer filled by the swirl of aetherius around him as he floats half in the beyond and half in his physical shell, sounds no longer drowned out by the eternal whirring and clicking of times grand clockwork. Instead there's just darkness, the scent of smoke, the soft crackling of a fire and the sound of soft voices somewhere in the din. Normally such things would be too small for a living god to notice, but now it's all he can focus on, alongside the sound of his own breathing and the feeling of a painful pinch where a piece of tech never quite managed to mesh with flesh and old scars. So as always, he blinks himself slightly more awake and reaches to soothe the pain.  
Or, well, he tries. It actually takes him a moment to realize that for all that he's sure he should be touching that spot above his left hipbone, he can't feel the familiar touch of a metallic hand that no amount of rune work ever got to be quite body temperature. It fact, he doesn't feel anything except that pinch and the nauseating feeling of knowing that something is wrong, something isn't right. The amount of time it takes him to actually realize that he can't feel the touch because his arm is gone  _again_ is just embarrassing. It's equally embarrassing when he tries to get himself to his feet and it takes him equally as long to realize why that isn't working either.

The second thing Sotha Sil notices after coming to, is that he's in a tent. The third thing he notices is the sleeping wrap he's been placed in, Redoran red, soft enough that it has to be shalk silk, and for the life of him he can't think of anyone who might even attempt to remove him from his city just to bring him somewhere outside to rest in a Redoran shalk silk wrap. There was no reasonable explanation.

And then the tent was pushed open and he was greeted by a familiar face, a face he had seen in his minds eye for the last several millennia. Crouched before him to fit into the tents entrance was Nerevar, still looking so like himself, despite the fact that his skin was dark like basalt rather than a gold turned almost brassy by the harsh sun of Resdayn, despite his eyes being garnet red rather than brown like a fine wood carving from the depths of Argonia, despite the fact that the hair hanging over his shoulders was as black as the depths of Red Mountain, where even the glow of magma dared not go rather than the white of a full harvest of saltrice on the bitter coast. The way Nerevar held himself, the way he smiled and ducked in to offer him assistance with sitting up was enough to let Sil know that despite everything, despite the prophecies and failed incarnations and changes of time, Nerevar had remained himself and as beautiful and wonderful as ever.

"Neht-"

He cuts himself off when it feels like he's trying to talk through a throat full of ash and dust, coughing so he won't choke on that and his own tongue which feels dry as a foyada. A cup is offered and he drains it greedily, the water tasting like the sweetest thing, sweeter even than the dew he stole off of the flowers of Azuras realm on a dare by Vehk, sweeter than the taste of victory against Mehrunes Dagon at Mournhold. It is relief made physical, banishing the burning in his throat and allowing him to settle, to remind himself to breathe as he stares at Nerevar, even when Nerevar simply laughs at him, warm and loving and kind as always.  
Sotha Sil allows himself to cling fiercely and whisper thanks to gods he long since abandoned in every language he knows, from dwemeris to old nordic to chimeris, dunmeris, aldmeris, he needs every higher being out there to know how thankful he is to have Nerevar with him again, how thankful he is to be held by strong arms while he hides himself against Nerevar's neck. Emotions are not suitable for a bannerman of House Telvanni, and most certainly not for a man of his status. So it's best that nobody sees or hears him weeping with joy at getting to see and feel and hear a man he's loved deeply and wholly for ages, a man who he thought he would never get to see again. He doesn't care what happens so him now, so long as it can happen while he's clinging to Nerevar like a netch calf to its mothers tendrils.

It's only when he's certain that he won't embarrass himself by being a big blubbery mess that Sil loosens his hold so he can watch Nerevar up close, take in his features one by one and silently compare every depiction he has ever seen of the man in front of him. None can compare, none could catch the way his smile is soft and warm and crooked, even without the scar that used to split his lip, allegedly earned in a drunken wrestling match with an angry guar, none ever managed to catch the way his eyes go soft when he looks at something he likes, or someone he loves. Of course, Sil tried his damndest to capture that likeness as well, figuring that having some semblance of a dead lover would be no big deal for a god to create. But then again, he was never an artist. That had been left to Vehk, the creative mind behind most of their grand ideas, while Almalexia took care of the work behind the scenes, planting plots and schemes, planning and preparing while Sil himself took care of all hard logistics, calculating and counting and working with the hard data, so much more reliable than people and the ever flighty work of ideas and creativity. Now he regretted that because it left him unable to gather up the words he wanted to say to Nerevar, everything he had spent ages thinking and imagining despite the uselessness of it before busying himself with words once more.

Still, he would try. And so he spoke again, still looking at the man in front of him like how a beggar would look at a king in a golden robe, awestruck and almost silenced by wonder. "Nerevar, I-"

"That's not my name, Seht. Not this time. Just call me Neht."

It's so familiar, Sil can't help but smile, despite of what he needs to say. "Neht, I need you to know that I regret nothing of what we did. Nothing, from the second we laid hands on Kagrenac's artifact to now, I regret nothing. I never will, but I regret every impact it had on our people, and I understand that you may never forgive me for that, for abandoning them as I did-"

"Sil, you don't have to explain-"

"Yes I do. I did things that now I would not face head on again, but I do not regret them one bit and I don't expect you to be able to forgive me for having done the things I did. We broke your oath, over your dying breath, we didn't even seek your forgiveness as we defiled your death with what we did-"

"I don't remember it."

"Good! I hope you never will. Our actions were awful but it was the only way out. Do  _not_ blame Vehk or Ayem for it either, I was the one who suggested it, I was the one who had spent countless hours considering how to take that power, Neht,  _I_ was the one who knew how to use those tools, I could have stopped it all and I only blew on the coals instead of smothering them. I don't expect your forgiveness, and I don't expect you to ever forget-"

This time, Nerevar, or Neht as he insists on being called, silences Sil with a kiss, something he'd done countless times when he was still Nerevar, when they were in the palace in Mournhold and he was getting worked up over the logistics of being the magical adviser to the king and queen of Mournhold, rather than getting worked up over all the awful things he'd done to so many people for the greater good.  
And just as back then, Sil remained silent even as the kiss ended, giving the man in front of him time to speak. "All I ever heard about you was how you loved our people. How you set them on their paths, how you would challenge your disciples but never burden them beyond their capabilities, how you looked out for them. You don't need to make some lengthy speech about why you don't deserve forgiveness, because I never found anything to have to forgive you for.

This time, Sotha Sil finds no shame in openly weeping as he once again clings and hides against the man who was and is Nerevar.


	3. New beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more things change, the more they stay the same, even across time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening for this chapter; Lovers Eyes by Mumford and Sons

When Almalexia wakes it's to the sound of quiet chatter in the background, and even muffled as the voices are she knows it's Seht and Neht. They were always awful at being subtle, with Seht coming the closest. Neht was always all fire and fury, rushing in head first with nary a thought to the consequences, and no matter how many times she'd had to step in and fix the mess he left behind, both politically and literally, she still loved him.

Even when she had to subtly direct him towards the best course for Morrowind, always having to manage a balance between Nerevar's everlasting optimism, Voryn's relentless pessimism, Sil's reluctance to act and Vivec's penchant for chaos. But she had been a queen, she had grown up managing expectations, reigning in a city of both nords and dunmer, balancing between being perceived as favoring one or the other, being too strong or too weak. Her life had always been a balance act, and some part of her was glad to bed rid of it as she examined her darkened skin, silently cursing Azura for having cursed her people in such a manner.

Still, she could only stay wrapped up for so long before restlessness got the better of her and she got to her feet, shuffling out of the tent with the sleeping wrap around her body like a cape, protecting her from peeking eyes and the surprisingly cold night wind. The fire was a welcome and familiar sight and it didn't take her long to settle by it, silently watching the flames lick over whatever was being burned, contemplating their return and absolutely ignoring the sounds of Seht and Neht still having their no doubt incredibly emotional reunion. Not that she was as hardened and unfeeling as she'd heard people claiming of late, but it felt wrong to intrude.

She'd killed Seht. She'd tried to kill Neht, or whoever he had become. Was he even still the same? Was she still the same? She wasn't so sure, but she was ripped from her thoughts by the sight of the nerevarine exiting the tent on the other side of the fire. He still looked like he had that day, even out of the scuffed bonemold and chitin armor, though the look on his face was distinctly different as she watched him root through a bundle of equipment abandoned nearby, soon returning with an old, dented pot stained black on the outside, bringing up old memories.

"Don't tell me you brought us back from the dead just to attempt to kill us again by cooking," she said, a joke only changed marginally by the fact that normally it would be about him saving their asses rather than bringing them back from the dead. And it seemed like the nerevarine remembered that, considering that he laughed as he always had, startled and amused.

"Well you're welcome to take over if you think you can do better, honorable lady Almalexia of Mournhold."

"I might. You tried to serve a dried out netch once."

"I'd like to see you find something better after a week in the ashlands."

The banter is old, familiar, and it makes her smile. She can almost close her eyes and pretend that they're still as they were, golden and blessed and on their way to chasing the outlanders out of Resdayn. Almost.

The illusion is rather shattered when the man who was her husband in another life actually seems to produce something that looks, and smells, vaguely edible. "When did you learn to cook?"

"Long time ago. It's easier to cook a stolen head of cabbage than trying to eat it raw."

That's like a punch to the gut. She can not imagine Nerevar, or any version of him, stealing anything. He was the one who got uppity about promises, rules, about setting a good example for everyone. To think that the man across from her is a thief is incomprehensible to her, for all that she herself is a liar, a murderer, a manipulator. "Stolen?"

The man across from her, who wears Nerevar's face, his ring and his voice, looks up at her for a moment. Then he looks back at whatever edible he's concocting, the light of the fire throwing shadows across a face that looks so familiar and yet so different. "Yeah. I couldn't be the son of House Indoril in this life. Wouldn't have fit the prophecy if that was the case, and then I wouldn't be here. And neither would you."

"I just can't imagine any version of you stealing anything."

"Oh trust me, it's caused a great deal of internal turmoil since I remembered myself."

She goes quiet then and settles for watching him again, taking in all the ways he's different. The man across from her looks so much like Nerevar, if it wasn't because she was looking for the differences she would not have been able to tell them apart. But there were small difference. Vague, but there. Still, she was hardly the same she had been either.

"Do you hate me-"  
"If I could have avoided-"

They both stop and just stare at each other, and then they laugh. Despite the fact that nothing is the same any longer, despite the fact that they're both different, changed by their lives and ordeals, Almalexia still feels like she can let her guard down and just smile at Neht. It seems that the more things are different the more they stay the same. And so she gets to her feet again, shuffling along to sit next to the man who wears her husband's face, smile, voice, laughter, who makes her feel at ease just like Neht always did.  
It helps that when she gets close enough he puts an arm around her and holds her close. Things are different now, but they can adjust. They can get to know each other again, all four of them. And that's fine. She can live with that.


	4. Twilight hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Neht seeks the light and forgiveness, Vehk hides in the shadows and deals in justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING  
> Contains mentions of off screen sex work and underage sex workers. If this makes you uncomfortable or triggers you, skip this chapter.

While Neht was busy cavorting with Daedra and dragging the dead out of the grasp of the void, Vehk sought out the dark corners of Mournhold where blending in was easy, so long as you wouldn't dress too flamboyantly, so long as you were willing to carry a dagger and so long as you were willing to use. The corners, the sewers, the dark streets littered with guar droppings, rats, scavenger beetles and the corpses of the unfortunate was where they were at home. They had lived there before they were Vehk, companion of Nerevar and member of the first council, long before they were Vivec the warrior poet of Vvardenfell. And as all thing did, time cycled around itself, a serpent devouring its own tail, and they returned to the corner where thousands of years ago a caravan guard had picked up a velothi daggerlad, no more than 17 but still familiar with the ways of sex and murder and how to get away with a mans coin without him even realizing it was even gone in the first place.

They did not want to be back, but someone had to bring in enough money to keep them fed and Neht would let himself starved to death before reaching the buried city under Mournhold if they let him. For all that there were still shades of Nerevar in the man they'd come to know as Neht, they saw a liar, a cheater, a man who could grab the attention of a whole cornerclub, liberate the richest patrons of their gold and valuables without them even realizing it. But damn, if he wouldn't still go hungry for weeks for the sake of others, even if he barely knew them which was so very Nerevar it was almost stunning to think of. They had always loved duality, felt drawn to it by the duality of their own body and mind and the duality of seeing Neht and Nerevar share a body, mind and soul was stunning to them, knowing that for all that most people were a single shade, there was someone else who existed in between. It made it easier to be the warrior poet, a being of strength and sex and bravado, masculine and flaunting it, while also being the netchimans wife, a creature of the shadows, of quiet words, submissive and gentle and easy to overlook. And it made it slightly easier to let the netchimans wife borrow the warrior poets strength, his boldness, his willingness to act or to let the warrior poet borrow the netchimans wifes gentle touch, her silence, her willingness to look the other way in situations beyond them, when they saw Neht borrow Nerevars bright disposition, the way he drew attention, his ability to lead, or when Nerevar would take Nehts ability to distract and cut loose when it was too much for even him.

Even while the thoughts swirled in Vehks head, of could be and maybe and ifs or when, worry and annoyance at the man digging away below their feet, the hope of seeing Ayem and Seht again and the feeling of despair that came with knowing that no god, neither Daedra or Aedra, would ever allow them to return, their feet kept carrying them along. For all that the district was different, less slum and more a gathering place for the citys lecherous activities the sounds of wrestling of both the violent and the intimate kind and the playing of music lead them ever on.  
The cornerclub was dingy and dirty and the mazte was more sewage than saltrice, but there were both men and women willing to pay a premium to lie with a daughter of Mephala. Never son, a man could never be worthy of the blessing of the webspinner, of being created in her image of in between, both and neither and straddling the divide. The coin was good, though, the drinks were passable and when they got the chance to teach a sister no more than 15 how to sharpen a pottery shard into a knife and how to use it when the patrons of the corneclub got too handsy they were content to leave.

Walking through Mournhold in the late hours of the night, just before Azuras hour, was a strange sort of blessing. The patrons of the night were retreating and the temple goers were waking to praise their goddess of twilight, the demon who had cursed them and betrayed their love. It's a blessed and cursed hour, one that they take to count out their coin. 170 septims isn't much when Neht keeps breaking his digging tools in fits of corprus rage, when the land is almost too arid even for ash yam, trama and scathecraw. But, it's better than nothing, and so they stuff the coins in a secret pocket, next to the dagger they keep hidden. Magic is good and well, but having a blade at hand is still the best way to stay safe no matter the situation.  
Especially when the situation involves a group of youths trying to take coin off of a young woman with baby swaddled to her chest. Luckily, boys are never as brave as they think they are when confronted with the business end of a blade pressed against their backs and the crackled of a lightning spell.

Ten minutes later, Vehk walks away with a lighter coin pocket, no dagger and the reassurance that the young woman will be able to defend herself, should something like that happen again. At least the detour meant that they arrived at the market district just as the farmers start arriving, pack guar loaded up with as much merchandise as possible and then they're in their element again, starting a long chain of bartering for one thing or another, slipping in and out between stalls as they trade coin for a strong piece of shell, an illicit favor in the back of a cart and the taste of the sea in their mouth for a bushel of corkbulb fruit, which can then be traded for two packets of hound jerky which then eventually becomes just enough food for two. Already they know they'll be back in that same spot the next night, but for the time being they're content to head for the tunnel below where no doubt they'll find Neht screaming at a rock wall he created himself. But such is life. And that's fine.

It has to be fine.


	5. A tricornered reunion

It's just past dawn when Neht pauses the careful work on his armor at the sound of Vehk returning to camp. Sure, they're quiet, but the soft rustling of cloth and the faint sound of bare feet stirring up the ashy soil is enough to make him look up while the new resin on his armor cures. The gauntlets were the ones he bought upon arrival in Morrowind all those years ago and he still took care of the chitin meticulously, even if they had been stained almost black from layers and layers of ash tainted resin over the years like so much of his armor. For now, the gauntlets are carefully set aside so he can get to his feet once again and greet Vehk with an embrace, a reminder to be whole, to not split themself at camp. It was far from unusual for them to come back in the morning wrecked, somewhere between the warrior-poet and the netchimans wife, not quite either but definitely not themself either. It was a look he'd come to know, and it meant that now he could pull them in close, kiss their face and help them come back, help Vivec become a whole out of their fragmented parts. And when they do return fully, it's as beautiful as always, making him smile when the cheeky smile returns to their face, when their eyes regain the spark that's so very essential to Vehk being Vehk.

He only lets go in order to let them check on the pot hanging over the last embers of the fire he'd kept going through the night. Of course, he also makes sure to excuse himself from camp before they can grill him about his lack of ability to cook. Alma had already taken care of that when he'd given her some of the sort of soup, sort of stew and she'd spat it out not very politely. But he's fine with it, he'll eat it himself and that'll be that. It's always been that way, and it's something he's actually grateful for, simply because it's a reminder that things are okay, that Alma at least is herself again, even if he's not so sure about Seht. But even if they're a little chipped around the edges, missing parts and messed up from having stretched themselves too far, he's going to do what he does with Vehk every morning and help them put themselves back together. Still, he trusts Alma to do more about that than Seht. For all that Sil is obviously and openly the cleverest of them, he's also perhaps the one with the least knowledge on how to keep his scribs in a line, how to keep track of everything. Sil is the one most likely to get swallowed up in something for days at a time, forgetting to eat, drink and sleep. Ayem is the one most likely to get caught up in futile plans, endless arguments for the sake of being right, and Vehk. Well, Vehk is lazy and lustful and would be happy to spend the rest of their life on their back with an endless supply of food and trusted lovers and no consequences.  
And he himself is the one keeping the pieces together. He's the one who forces Seht to eat and drink and sleep, he's the one who distracts Ayem with quieter discussions and walks through the city, he's the one who drags Vehk out and into the world without it having to be a chore. And in the process he tends to forget himself.

For now, at least, he doesn't forget that they need water, so he hoists the large water jug from its spot on the edge of camp and dutifully ignores the pain of the carrying rope biting into the sores on his shoulder and back, even if he knows it means more washing of clothes. For all that he's not contagious and hasn't been in so, so long, he still doesn't want to run the risk of starting a plague, not when Morrowind is so weakened by Red Mountain. So he simply prepares himself for the trek down to the nearest well, and then the trek back as soon as the jug is full. It helps when he closes his mind and remembers the sounds of bells reverberating off of stone walls and over the ash wastes. Why isn't something he wants to dwell on, because when he gets back he can hear Ayem waking up again, her grumbling and quiet complaints familiar. Therefore he sets the jug down, takes a moment to make sure he looks presentable and then finally he crawls into the tent with her, watching with a small, fond smile as she sits up, her hair still the same cloud of red curls, even if her skin is ash grey. And of course, without asking he moves to kiss her on the forehead before getting started on helping with taming her hair as he's done so, so many times before. It's still the same, even if he has to use leather cord rather than silk string to tie it all up, even if there are no jeweled hair pins, no crown, no golden paint for her face or body. Even without it she manages to look beautiful, regal and powerful and he can't help but hold her and dare to kiss her, even as she complains about not having cleaned her teeth yet. For a minute or two he dares to hold on, to feel her in his arms, familiar but not, like a deja vu, before she chases him off so she can get dressed and cleaned in peace.

Instead he heads for Sil's tent, only pausing for a moment to find a robe in his pack and a comb.  
Of course Sil is more awake than Alma, but only barely. Neht can't help but smile as he sits himself by Sil, offering him a hand so he can at least haul himself into a sitting position. They'll have to go by a dwemer stronghold soon, get the tools and materials for Sil to build himself new prosthetics, but that time isn't for now. Now is the time for Neht to get his hands in Sil's hair, comb through the long strands and then give him the braids of house Sotha, pulled back and up for safety while fishing along the shores of Ald Sotha. It's familiar, comforting, being able to settle into it, to imagine that they're who they were, even if he still has a hard time imagining himself with golden skin.  
Still, he allows himself to just hold Seht, to remind himself what it feels like to hold him, learn the positions of a couple of scars both old and new, learn the scent of him. It's comforting, as is the sound of Sil complaining when he has to help him into the robe and struggle to get it fitting properly on someone with a longer torso and just a single arm. The complaining also doesn't get better when he has to carry Sil out and to the fire where Ayem is already running her hands over the soft peach fuzz of Vehk's hair where it's growing back, soft and white as always. It looked good before, and he can't help but wonder if they'll let it grow now that there's no more divine fire to burn it off.

For now he simply goes to dump Sil on Ayem's lap, though, after which he steps back to just watch as the three of them embrace each other as well as they can in one big tangle of limbs. And in that moment, it feels like coming home, even if he still wishes Voryn could have been with them as well.

He's finally home.


	6. Night out on town

It doesn't take Sotha Sil long to realize that Nerevar is not the man he once was. Or, well, Neht is not Nerevar, though he has his memories and sometimes acts so like him that he can't help but fall in love all over again. In fact, the two are as different as night and day but still happen to exist as a sort of twilight person. Very fitting for a champion of Azura. Fitting, but still so strange and it's a joy to him, figuring out where the lines are drawn, which part of Neht rules and what his story in this life is.

A simple visit to the local mages guild lets him know that for all neither Nerevar nor Neht have a talent for magic, Neht tries to learn. He brews potions and can manage at the very least levitation and waterbreathing, he can manage up a spark of restoration magic, but his skills in mysticism, conjuration, illusion and destruction are abysmal. Even a simple fire spell, which should come easy to any dunmer, literally blows up in his face and sets the carpets on fire. (Sil may or may not have laughed his ass off in response to that, laughing too hard to even help with extinguishing the flames. It was just too funny, seeing Neht run around like a headless bantam guar and stomp out the flames.)  
Later that same evening, he learns that though both of them are good at talking, they use their skills very, very differently. All four of them have gone to a cornerclub for the night, Almalexia setting up to help the locals with their pain and aches for a small fee. She is still Mother Morrowind, no matter the fact that the people will not remember her as such and she has the most skill in restoration of all of them. Meanwhile, Vehk sings and dances for the crowd and basks in their praises, showing off and moving like a silk ribbon in the wind, flowing, twisting and turning and so graceful, smile shining even through the din as they take money from yet another patron before they let their silver bell voice join in on another bawdy drunkards song. Sil himself was discussing the intricacies of dwemer curios with a collector up until two minutes ago, picking through the scrap metal on the table in front of him to find pieces useful for shaping into parts for a new arm, because then at least he can get himself around a little, even if getting around in that manner is deeply humiliating. And Neht-

Well, Neht has taken up a corner and has gathered a crowd, telling some story or other which the people gathered around seem to listen to with bated breath. Even from a distance, Sil finds himself drawn in, captivated by Neht's charisma, his ability to draw attention to hm like a magic, to keep people entertained as he tells some story or other, and as curiosity gets the better of him, he can't help but lean closer and listen in.

"-and as I stood at the top of the tower I could look out across all of Deshaan, all the way to fair Mournhold! And I'll tell you, the view was such that I wanted to never leave. If I could have remained there forevermore, I would still be there to this day! But as I stalled there for just a second, I could hear the skittering of those damned automatons following me up the stairs!" The crowd gives a suitably surprised gasp at that before leaning in just the tiniest bit closer, whispering and asking how he escaped, how he avoided the automatons. But Sil finds himself distracted by a faint glimmer of light from the corner.  
In the moment it takes him to realize that the glimmer of light was the light reflecting on the surface of Neht's ring, Neht manages to free the merchant of his flask of Telvanni bug musk, which then vanishes into his bag as he leans down to pretend at scratching his ankle. That action is enough to have him paying attention, silently glaring at Neht as he relieves the captivated crowd of their valuables, the clinking of full coin pouches hidden under the roar of laughter at a particularly amusing turn of phrase, small decorative amulets removed with sweeping arm movements. It's easy to see that Neht moves with practiced ease, and that realization is enough to have Sil ordering a cup of Cyrodiilic brandy on Neht's tab, something for him to nurse as he wonders how a pickpocket and charlatan, because he knows Neht's story is complete bullshit, Mzithumz fell long before Neht was born, buried under rubble from an earthquake. He knows, he helped dig his disciples out of the fallen ruins, recovered their bodies so that they might return to their ancestors.

He only stops his silent brooding when Almalexia sits next to him, smelling like sun and freshly cut reeds and salty sand, something that just comes with her magic. He allows himself a second to lean against her and kiss her cheek and he can't help smile when she puts an arm around his waist and simply holds him close. It's pleasant, a quiet moment just for them as he kisses her once more before looking out over the corneclub, eyes once again focusing on the man in the corner who seems to be taking a break from his lying and stealing. "Did you know that this Neht is a thief?"

She almost scoffs at him, as if he's telling her last months news. "I know. He told me, actually. That night when we were brought back. He claimed to have learned to cook because it's easier to cook stolen food than eat it raw."

"He should have spent a while longer practicing, if he called that cooking."

Somehow that makes her laugh, and the sound of that wipes the mock sour expression from his face, drawing out a smile instead.

"Well, yes, I'll concede on that. Did you catch him stealing?"

"He's been working that crowd all night, if you catch my meaning."

In response to that she simply nods and sighs, then picks up one of the tiny gears on the table, turning it over in her hands, catching the tiny teeth on her thumbnail and carefully rolling it across her palm. Eventually Sil does reach to retrieve his gear, mumbling something about wearing down the teeth as he returns it to the pile before immediately handing her another piece. If she's going to sit with him, she might as well hold the tiny pieces in place while he starts working on shaping what's going to be the tiniest of engines, small enough to fit five in the palm of his hand, one for each finger. It's a pattern that's burned into his mind from endless repairs, for all that he preferred the far more fine-tuned but less lifelike work prosthetic. Vehk always insisted that it was creepy and, well, he'd never found a reason to unsettle them on purpose, meaning that usually the less precise but more lifelike arm was in use whenever he had to spend time with them. Now, living with all three of them, a more realistic approach is a necessity. So he casts a quick night vision spell, cracks his knuckles on the edge of the table and then gets to work.

No more than an hour later the two of them are joined by Vehk who settles right in, whispering dirty jokes and absolutely ruining Seht's work when a particularly crass one makes him do that ugly, amused sort of snort, which then results in him dropping a carefully assembled piece which falls apart immediate. They even have the audacity to laugh when he smacks them on chest, they barely even play at being injured when he smacks them again, gentle and mostly playful but still there. From the outside it must look like a strange scene, a one-armed cripple physically assaulting a dancer giggling their butt off while the woman next to him struggles to not laugh her ass off at how absolutely ridiculous they are. It feels like being home, though. Especially when Neht joins them by squeezing himself in right between Sil and Almalexia, immediately getting his hands in their hair. For all that he wants to be angry at Neht, Sil finds himself unable to get even remotely close that. (It probably has something to do with the hand in his hair and the kiss being pressed to his cheek. Probably.)

In spite of everything, in spite of things being different, it feels like being home, with Vehk on one side wriggling their eyebrows at him and Neht on the other, not so discreetly stealing his brandy while Almalexia just watches, obviously amused. It feels like home and he can't help but smile and settle against Vehk at the thought of getting to spend another lifetime with the people nearest to him.


	7. Interlude

He wakes with ash in his lungs and a throbbing ache in his chest. He's burned, skin raw as he rubs his eyes clean of ash and dust, coughing and struggling to sit.

As he struggles to his feet he feels weak and vulnerable, stumbling along through the dark and silently wondering where he is. He pauses for a moment and silently prays for guidance before moving along, trailing a familiar path through what he recognizes as his home, though the ash and stale air is new. For a moment he wonders where his brothers are, but then he moves on and avoids thinking of what might have happened that he woke up in the burial chamber.

The earth shakes when he reaches the grand hall, and for all that he knows the stronghold has stood for centuries and will continue to stand, he still hurries as much as he can towards the door, hoping and praying that he's right about the stronghold standing strong as ever and the shaking earth just being a tremor from Red Mountain.

His hopes are dashed when the old runes respond to his touch, finally, and slides the door out of the way, only to reveal the worst case scenario. Ash billows from the mountain and the sky is turned red with the glow of the lava as the foyadas overflow.

Vvardenfell is on fire and all he can do is pray and run for the ocean.


	8. The winding road

They stay in Mournhold for almost a full month while Sil and Almalexia get used to everything again. Mostly Almalexia, though. And really, she gets it, she was the one who took their fall from divinity hardest and she still struggles sometimes, not used to the ashen color of her skin, the way her tattoos almost vanish where the sun has darkened her skin further. She still struggles with seeing Vehk as fully Dunmer, having been used to the Warrior-poet, the god who was both both Chimer and Dunmer and a perfect midpoint between her and Sil who always valued being closest to their people. She still struggles with not being able to help anyone and everyone, with not being able to imperceptibly tip the odds in her favor, she misses the feeling of being able to lead the most skilled individual people to her, misses being recognized and worshiped and revered wherever she goes. She misses being queen of Mournhold, she misses being Mother Morrowind, Merciful Mother Ayem of the Holy Tribunal.

And for all that she understands the mistrust from the three others, it still feels a bit like she's being treated like a child when Neht refuses to let her be alone with both Sil and Vehk, when he roots through the few belongings she's managed to acquire and leaves with the dagger she bought for self defense. It's humiliating, but she can't blame him. Sometimes everything still feels so very empty and it comes with the feeling of being stuck in a place that's both too small and too big. Sometimes she swears she can hear the Heart beating just on the edge of her hearing, slow and steady and powerful. She's always quick to dismiss it though, even when that voice on the edge of her mind whispers that she's a goddess, the people should fall at her feet and worship her instead of the daedra who never did anything for them.

It's not so easy to dismiss how everything comes back into focus just a few days after they leave Mournhold.  
They travel eastward, along the Inner Sea coast where the beaches are littered with the skeletons of dead fish and the smashed carapace of mudcrabs and dreugh alike, though there are some silt racers (at least that's what Vehk calls them, to her they look like young cliff racers but apparently those are all gone) hopping about, picking over the remains. Sure, the ash in Mournhold had been a shock, but seeing the beaches which had one been beautiful and black with volcanic sand and loud with the sounds of gulls and splashing fish around the coral trees, all of it gone and replaced with ash, the dead skeletons of fish and corals bleached white sticking out of the water like reminders of what used to be.  
Thus, that night when they strike camp and Neht drags Sil along with him out on a coral cropping to attempt to catch some fish, she goes to the edge of the water, leaving her shoes behind so she can let the waters of the Inner Sea lap at her ankles, warmer than it should be so late in the year. It's all wrong, silent and dead, and yet she's not surprised when Vehk joins her by the edge of the water, reaching to grab her hand as they look north, to Vvardenfell where Red Mountain spews fire and ash, visible even as the night darkens. They just stand there in silence and mourn what was, mourn their land, the people who have to struggle after so long of having it good.

After they've stood there for a while, Vehk turns to look at her for just a second before facing their island again, quiet and subdued as the netchimans wife takes the responsibility of speaking for once.

"It's been spewing for almost 200 years. 200 years of ash and fire and death, and it's all my fault. It's my fault that our people died. That Vvardenfell is ruined now."

That's how she learns about the fall of Baar Dau. How Vehk and Neht were in Akavir when it fell, how they felt the tremor even there, how they had fled back home with nary a thought to preparations, how they'd know that they needed to be there for their people for whatever cataclysm had happened. That's how she learns about the Oblivion Crisis and the Argonian invasion, she learns of all the hardships her people have faced and it aches in her heart. When Vehk points to jagged stones sticking out of the ash and tells her that it used to be a gate to Oblivion it sends a cold shiver down her back. The sheer number of disaster that has befallen their people in such a short time is too much, it makes her chest tight, knowing that there are children who will never know the glory of Resdayn, who will never see Vehks city in all its glory, who will never see the coral beaches, the great mushroom forests to the east, the towers of the Telvanni, people who will only know of silt striders and the Vvardenfell grazelands from legends.  
Somehow it even hurts when she hears that the ashlanders are no more, that they were as well as wiped out when Vvardenfell burned.

The melancholy mood is broken when somewhere a splash is heard and both Vehk and Ayem immediately snap to attention, just in time to see Neht yank a hooting and hollering Sil into the sea with him. Seeing Neht losing a wrestling match to a one-armed man with no legs is also just funny enough to have both of them laughing their butts off before running off to join their stupid boys. Someone has to dunk Sil for his crime of pushing Neht in to begin with, and then Almalexia accidentally splashes Neht and soon it's an all out splash fight that at the end sends them back to shore drenched to the bone, out of breath and grinning like children while they discuss who has to help comb whose hair as Vehk laughs and suggest they all follow their example and get rid of it all. So instead they set Vehk to cleaning fish as punishment for snarking as the three of them end up in a little grooming row with Neht last. Someone has to detangle her curls and frankly, Ayem doesn't have the patience for it herself and Sil only has one hand.   
Of course the grooming line eventually devolves into just cuddling and smacking each other with wet braids like children while Vehk recites awful poetry they make up on the spot. Life is still good in spite of everything, she decides as she helps smack Neht with Sils braid. Life is good.


	9. Divided and reassembled

Since leaving Mournhold, they've all taken to sleeping in the same tent, all huddled up together, spending their last hour before sleep arguing about who sleeps next to who, because nobody wants to get halfway choked by Almas thick curls, Sil tosses and turns in his sleep, Vehk clings like a tick with separation anxiety and Neht snores, no matter how many times he claims that the three of them are just filthy liars.

Still, the order of who sleeps where doesn't really matter all that much when night watch is taken into consideration, something they at least have managed to get down solidly. Neht always takes first watch, Vehk takes second watch, Alma takes third and Sil is last. It's set in stone, nobody complains and it gives them time to meet in the interim, the spots where one wakes up the next for their watch and then spends five or ten minutes just talking before one has to head to sleep.  
It's on one of those nights near the inner sea when Vehk awakes to take their watch and finds Neht silently looking out over the sea, unmoving and for once out of his armor fully. Normally it's borderline impossible to get him out of the chitin armor so old it's more resin than chitin, scuffed and dented and blackened by two centuries of ash contaminating the resin, two centuries of dried blood and dirt and ichor. That makes seeing him without the armor strange, seeing just how thin he still is, all wiry muscle and bones despite his strength. But then again, sometimes it's hard to tell whether the strength and endurance is really him or the corprus which still stains his body, scars and boils and pustules and growths which he removes with a dagger whenever they get too bothersome. It's one thing they know he still wants to hide, one of the reasons he has yet to allow Alma and Sil to see him quite uncovered.

But that's none of Vehks concern. Their concern at the moment is just keeping the fire going, feeding the small flame with driftwood gathered throughout the day. Then it's just a matter of keeping an eye and ear out for whatever's coming their way during the night. At least it's a quiet night, no rain, no ash clouds, the wind is with them and brings with it just a hint of cold from the far away Velothi mountains, reminding them that winter is coming soon, and even the warmth of Red Mountain can't keep the snow from Blacklight. It'll be cold, but they can't wait to get to spend the winter huddled away in some Redoran councilors guest wing because nobody is going to deny a former Redoran councilor, for all that Neht has long since stepped back from that position. Allegedly he'd felt it was wrong to have such strong ties to one specific house when three houses had named him Hortator.  
Regardless of that matter, though, House Redoran prides itself on honor and duty and more than once on their journeys across Morrowind, they'd both stopped somewhere and sought respite in a Redoran outpost or stronghold, wintering in such places and just allowing themselves a taste of settled life, for all that neither of them would fit in it. Vehk is too mistrustful of good intentions still, seeing spies and traitors around every corner, wary of being used or abused and Neht gets too restless, his fingers get itchy and the corprus roars in his voice, demanding open skies and travel. So they traveled. But now? Things are more complicated. They can't travel in the winter, not as easily at least. When it was just the two of them, they could easily move their few supplies around, hunt and live off of the land or stick south, but now they have Sil and Alma with them, which is a whole mess of complications and Neht has been leading them north for weeks. None of them know why, he won't talk about it.

Thus, when Neht finally turns to face Vehk at the fire, they of course take the chance to talk while he moves to sit by them. "So, Neht, care to what we're heading north so fast? And why in the name of every unholy pit in Oblivion we're heading there at this time of year?"

Of course they don't get an answer at first. Instead Neht just shrugs and scratches at the corprus scars on his shoulder, staring into the fire. When he does speak, his voice is soft and almost distant; "Azura told me to. There's something in Blacklight we have to do. I don't know what, but there's something there."  
Vehk frowns at his words. "You know that Azura has lead us astray before? What's to say this isn't just another one of her schemes to use you for her own selfish means?"  
"She's yet to lead me astray. And she lead me to Sil and Alma. She brought them back. I can't just ignore her."  
"Yes you can, Neht. She doesn't deserve you." The words burn in their mouth as they practically spit them out. Azura has done nothing to deserve Nehts undying devotion, his loyalty to her and his eagerness to please her. "She's the reason all of this has happened in the first place! She's the reason we're out here, traveling like a band of vagabonds!"  
"No, that's your fault. You're the one who caused that," he snaps, voice cold as ice as he points to where Red Mountain still burns on the horizon. "Don't try to wipe your guilt off on Azura, you're the one who kept Bar Dau up there. You're to blame for all of this."  
"I did what I had to!"  
"You didn't have to keep it up there!"

At that point they both fall silent, as Vehk gives a silent admission of guilt by refusing to answer and look at Neht again. So of course he sits next to them and places a hand on their shoulder before speaking again. "Why did you keep it up there?"  
They're quiet for a moment, running a hand over their head before answering. "I didn't want them to see through me and turn against me."  
"So you kept them in check by hovering a giant death rock above their heads?"  
"You can't judge me."  
That earns no response because really, judging them now would be ridiculous. All four of them know whose hands are stained with the blood of thousands upon thousands of innocents, who's to blame for the famine, the loss of so much. They know, and that's more than enough for the four of them. That's also why they end up just sitting there by the fire, just the two of them, holding each other as they have so many times in the past, silently grieving for all that was lost, both blaming themselves until Vehk eventually breaks the silence with a different topic.

"How do you think they'll take wintering up here?"  
"Who, Ayem or Seht?"  
"Both of them."  
"I think Ayem will end up crawling up the walls. You know how restless she gets. Seht's going to love it. He'll probably try to get us to stay settled for longer. He'll have time to tinker."  
"I just hope it doesn't end up like the last time we all wintered together."  
"I don't- oh, wait, yeah, I think I remember that. Did we ever find out who fathered Ayems baby?"  
"Nope."  
"Ah, a shame, really. I can't wait to get to Blacklight. Take them down to the market."  
"You're such a loser." Finally they're smiling again, doing so as they shove Neht sideways onto the ashy beach, the smile staying as he laughs and finally heads off to bed, leaving Vehk to a quiet, peaceful watch.


	10. A burning blaze

He’s only been in Blacklight for a few days when he first hears the rumors; giant beasts have been seen in the Velothi mountains, creatures as big as a house taking flight and breathing fire. Nobody seems to know what it is, but he’s convinced that it’s dragons. Sure, the dragons were said to be dead and gone last he heard, but a giant, flying beast that spits fire? There’s only one explanation.  
Somehow, from somewhere, the dragons have returned to Tamriel.

He doesn’t mention it, though. Instead he just keeps his head down and keeps on moving from that conclusion. After all, living at the good graces of Azuras temple means hard work, something that still feels unfamiliar to him, at least the physical labor in between his work on transcribing the oldest holy texts to newer books, translating Veloths words from chimeris to dunmeris, teaching the acolytes how to do so as well. It still strikes him with some sort of amazement that they don’t somehow see through his ruse, that they believed his words when he claimed to be merely a learned man, a student of ancient languages. More than anything he fears the day the priests see right through him, see the corruption which struck at his center so long, hear the whispers of ancient powers that still linger at the edges of his mind. But until then, at least he can continue his work.

It’s with that dark cloud lingering over his mind that he draws the hood further down over his head, tightens the cloak around his body and continues on through the market, eyes turned to the ground. That’s why he doesn’t notice the smoke until the smell of it hits him.

Somewhere in the distance, smoke is billowing up and he doesn’t even hesitate to run there. Though, he does notice the sound of heavy wings in the air and the earsplitting roar that follows. And like so many others he can only stop and stare as the dragon swoops down and sets another row of buildings on fire, even as the redoran guard jumps into action to pelt it with arrows and fire.  
There’s no time to fight, though. Instead he runs once again; the buildings most recently hit were only storage, but the blaze in the distance is more worrying.  
It doesn’t get less worrying when he arrives and doesn’t even have to hesitate before knowing what building is on fire; it’s a healers clinic, full of the sick and injured who will never get out in time. So he does what nobody else seems willing to do. He wraps his scarf around his face and runs in, hoping and praying that he’ll have enough magicka to help as many people as possible.

The ground freezes beneath him, but it’s difficult to call on the frost with the heat around him. Flames are licking up the beams supporting the upper floor and along the ceiling, the roar of the blaze almost concealing the sound of feet on the floor above and the cries of pain and so of course he rushes to the stairs. There he whispers a prayer to Azura before calling on every bit of frost he can gather to douse the flames and make passage down safe. Though the work is far from done, and so he turns to where the blaze is still strongest; the healers workshop. No doubt all the alchemical ingredients and substances have provided plenty of fuel for the fire, but he has to check that nobody is caught there. So for all that the heat is almost unbearable and the smoke is making his eyes water, he continues on.  
At least it only takes a moment to realize that whoever might have been in the workshop is either dead or has already escaped, which means he can once more return to helping people get out, something he’s not the only one to do, if the faint shapes he sees through the smog is anything to go by. It’s getting harder to breathe, though, and the stairs seem so far away.

That’s probably the reason why when he hears the beam above him give and start its descent, he can’t get away. And really, it’s not a bad way to die, helping people out of a burning building.

Except instead of death, he just hears someone groaning and breathing heavy above him, a pained hiss and the scrape of wood on something hard. And when he looks up he sees a familiar face, once more twisted in pain, in anger, as the Nerevarine stands above him, the fallen beam braced on his shoulder.

It feels like he lays there for an eternity, staring at the face of a man who he thought he wouldn’t see again. The man who struck him down so very long ago, in a similar place that was still so very, very different. Now there’s no heartbeat in the distance, no animosity, no regret, no pain aside from the pain inexplicably surging through his head, shoulder and right leg as he lays there, staring up at the Nerevarine, whose name he doesn’t even know.

To his credit, he only flinches slightly when the other man looks at him with shock, pain and something he can’t identify right off the bat. And his voice is still the same when he speaks. “I killed you. Am I dead? Is this a hallucination of some sort?”  
“This isn’t a hallucination as far as I know. Unless we’re experiencing it together. You could ask me something only I would know.”  
“What was the last thing I told you beneath Red Mountain? Before we were cursed.”  
“You… You told me that you’d trusted me. Loved me. You asked how I could have betrayed you like that. And I told you that we could all ascend, become living gods. Then you stabbed me with Trueflame and I ran.”  
“That’s… Gods, Voryn, how did this happen? How are you here?”  
And for once, there’s a question that Dagoth Voryn can only answer with silence. The man above him looks hurt and scared. Like any second the whole situation might end, that it all might have been a hallucination.

“We should get out of here,” Voryn says quietly, after maybe a minute or so of silence. In response, the Nerevarine laughs bitterly.  
“We can’t. The ceiling collapsed on us. If I move now we both die.”  
“You can’t stay there forever, though.  
“Almost. Thanks to you. Corprus is a hell of a thing when you get to keep your mind and body mostly intact.”  
“Oh… Nerevar…” It’s a shock to the system, knowing that the man above him still suffers with his cursegift, the disease which the corruption within him created once upon a time. “I thought you were cured..”  
“The gods wouldn’t be so kind. And my name is Neht.”  
“I thought that was just a petname?”  
“It still is, if only because Nehtekem is too long to say.”

Nehtekem. At least now Voryn has a name to the face above him, the man who’s still looking at him with quiet pain, silent suffering. It hurts. “If it helps, Neht, I never stopped loving you. Not even when we last met.”  
“I… I don’t think I ever stopped loving you either. I just didn’t know I did, when we met there. And I don’t regret what happened there.”  
“I do.” He does, truly, he regrets having given in to the Hearts corruption, the lure of power. He regrets becoming the sharmat, he regrets becoming the thing feared by all Morrowind. He regrets becoming someone who Nehtekem had to kill.

It’s silent from the on, silent as the fire burns out and they breathe a little easier, silent as the rubble shifts and Neht groans and curses under his breath. It’s silent between the two of them, even when Neht lifts him from the rubble and carries him to the improvised healers clinic set up on the side of the street.  
The silence is only broken when Nehtekem offers to hold his hand while the healer sets his broken leg and binds his burns. And of course, Voryn can’t help a morbid joke or two. “I suppose this is how Seht must have felt.”  
Somehow it makes Nehtekem laugh, tired and wrung out, but it’s a laugh. Still, he answers after a moment, voice rough from the smoke. “I suppose so. We could always ask him?”  
“He’s here too?” Voryn asks, almost unable to believe it. Sotha Sil should be dead alongside the rest of the tribunal, if nothing else then from time catching up to them. Still, somehow it’s not surprising. If anyone were to figure out how to beat death, it would be Sotha Sil, the slippery bastard.

That knowledge doesn’t make it less shocking when he spots all three of them. Yet, it does make it slightly less surprising when Almalexia slaps him across the face and promises him an earful later on, and somehow he cries with relief.


	11. Flash of Fury

From the healers camp they head directly to the Redoran council house. Someone must have answers. Even if they don’t, there needs to be a plan in place for how to deal with the dragons apparently coming over the mountain, and already Neht is thinking up solutions, even as Seht chatters in his ear, theories and ideas spilling from his mouth at a thousand miles an hour. As much as it feels like home, it’s also annoying, but he can’t just dump Sil on one of the others. Alma and Vehk are helping Voryn keep up, and Neht is the only one strong enough to carry Seht around without issue.  
At least until Seht works out how to rebuild his legs in a timely manner that does not require traveling the whole fucking continent in the search for parts, which has proven difficult because of Sehts unwillingness to use different materials.  
(Allegedly it doesn’t fit his _fucking_ _aesthetic,_ of all the things to be a stubborn ass about. Neht had to break up a fight when Vehk commented that there is nothing aesthetically pleasing about the dwemer.)

The endless chatter means that by the time they stand in front of the Redoran council house, Neht is practically seething, patience worn thin and pulse pounding in his ears as he walks up the stairs. It’s the worst possible place for him to be in when he’s expecting to be dragged into delicate, political discussions. But then again, that was always more Alma and Vehks forte. They were the ones working the delicate weave of politics and alliances while he lead the armies and gave the chimer hope. But, then again, it’s entirely possible that the Redoran councilors will outright refuse to listen to someone who can lay claim to no house, not even an ancestral name.

But of course, at the top of the stairs, the guards at the front entrance simply stand taller and cross their spears at the sight of them, letting him practically feel their distrustful looks through the eye-slits of their helmets. It’s enough to make him just that bit more aware of the pounding in his head, the feeling like something is choking him when he finally opens his mouth and speaks; “I demand to see the council.”  
It’s the guard on the left who straightens almost imperceptibly before answering, “The council is in a meeting. They will not take visitors for the rest of the day-”  
“They will see me.”  
“The council will see no one. Return to your duties or you will be removed by force.”

The next thing that registers in Nehts head is that he’s face down on the ground and feeling like he’s being crushed. His whole body is shaking and the pounding in his ears is overwhelming and infuriating, even more so with the taste of blood, ash and bile in his mouth.  
He doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually the red fog clears from his vision, letting him see the front half of a guardsmans helmet, the bonemold broken like the shell of a dropped egg, and on the far side he can see where the impact came from, what had to be the front right side barely held together by the resin. Bonemold, a wonder of dunmer technology, really.

It takes him another few moments to register that someone has a hand on the back of his neck, his left arm twisted up high enough that the throbbing of his shoulder can only be from it having popped out of the socket, and someones knee pinning his left hand in place. He can feel On-Clan-Under-Moon-And-Star digging into his throat where the chain’s come dislodged from under his shirt, and no doubt the points of the star is drawing blood. It’s a strange situation, but one he’s been in too many times to not be able to figure out what happened. With the rush from the fire and the dragon attack, corprus decided to rear its ugly head and he punched the guard hard enough to actually break open a bonemold helmet and send a chunk flying.  
It would be impressive, if it wasn’t going to get him landed in jail for assault. And honestly, he can do without another stint in prison, last time it all went to shit and he still clings to his plan to stay out of jail for the rest of his life.

Slowly the sound of talking comes back to him, letting him register that Alma is talking to the guards, with Vehk interjecting now and then. Words are still a little beyond his reach, but they are also returning ever so slowly, at least until the chain with the Moon-And-Star is grabbed and the ring shown off. At that point it’s like everything snaps into clear focus, followed by the faintest scent of roses.

“Do you know what this is?” It’s Vehk who asks, letting him know that they’re the one holding him down.  
“I know what it’s an imitation of. It also lets us add blasphemy to the list of crimes.”  
“Oh, no, this is the real deal. Try it on if you dare!”  
Of course, at that point Neht has to interject, “I’d rather not also get put away for murder.”  
“It’s not murder if it’s caused by someones own stupidity,” Vehk replies casually as they finally let go of him, letting his get back to his feet and take in more of the scene.  
It’s really not good. Voryn is sitting on the stairs, looking like he’s given up and wants nothing more than for the earth to just swallow him up right then and there, Seht is arguing in hushed tones with an entirely third guard about what happened and Alma is tending to the guard he punched, slowly picking shards of bonemold from his face and healing the damage. It’s… not good, to say the least.  
It becomes even less good when the doors to the council house burst open and what must be half the Redoran councilors come storming out with a handful of guards in full glass and ebony armor. Already the councilors are demanding explanation, but Neht just ignores them all, steps aside to grab both Voryn and Seht and marches right inside.  
“Neht, please, for once in your life could you _please_ not act like a completely barbarian?” Voryns voice is full of despair, and Neht shrugs in reply.  
“It would be entirely out of character for him to act as anything other than a senseless brute, though, and I don’t know whether we have you to thank for that or just his recent cavorting with the ashlanders,” Sil comments, voice as dry as the ash.  
“Let’s make one thing clear, I never intended for _that_ particular side effect.”  
“Well, unfortunately you got it. I wonder where it came from, then, the idea to turn half of Vvardenfell into mindless, rabid brutes or-”  
“If you two don’t stop arguing, I’m going to dump both of you into the same jug.” He doesn’t even need to point out which jugs, he knows that the ones standing along the wall, large enough to hold at the very least one adult person, are empty and only for decoration. It’s the one dunmeri thing he still struggles to understand.

Regardless, when the argument dies out almost immediately he gives Voryn and Seht mercy, and heads for the council table. There the councilors who stayed behind, including the Archmaster, a woman who he doesn’t recognize, practically jump to their feet with shock when he steps into the hall with Vehk and Alma right behind. And really, they must look like quite the group, with him at the front, looking like a wreck and carrying Voryn over one shoulder and Seht over the other, then Alma and Vehk behind them.  
A sight that does not get better when he shoves the Redoran Archmaster out of the way and drops Seht into her abandoned seat, then sets Voryn in the seat to his right. Then, and only then, does he take a moment to remove One-Clan-Under-Moon-And-Star from it chain and put it on properly.  
Finally then he turns to face the enraged councilors, takes a deep breath and lets Nerevar speak. “What in the name of The Three are you planning to do about the damned dragons?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like to act as beta reader for this, hit me up on tumblr at arual147


End file.
